Part 3

"Decker, you ought to learn to play," said one of the guests who had watched him through the last piece. "You _look_ music, right out of your eyes. Miss Sherrill, here is a pupil for you who might do you credit. Have you ever had any instrument, Decker?"

Then Norm came back to every-day life, and flushed and stammered. "No, he hadn't, and was not likely to;" and wondered what they would think if they were to see the corner grocery where he spent most of his leisure time.

The questioner laughed pleasantly. "Oh, I'm not so sure of that. I have a friend who plays the violin in a way to bring tears to people's eyes, and he never touched one until he was thirty years old; hadn't time until then. He was an apprentice, and had his trade to master, and himself to get well started in it before he had time for music; but when he came to leisure, he made music a delight to himself and to others."

"A great deal can be done with leisure time," said another of the guests. "Mr. Sherrill, you remember Myers, your college classmate? He did not learn to read, you know, until he was seventeen."

"What?" said Norm, astonished out of his diffidence; "didn't know how to read!"

"No," repeated the gentleman, "not until he was seventeen. He had a hard childhood--was kicked about in the world, with no leisure and no help, had to work evenings as well as days, but when he was seventeen he fell into kinder hands, and had a couple of hours each evening all to himself, and he mastered reading, not only, but all the common studies, and graduated from college with honor when he was twenty-six."

Now Norm had all his evenings to lounge about in, and had not known what to do with them; and he could read quite well.

THE TWO LITTLE PIGS.

ONE bright summer morning as I was strolling toward the beach, on the island of Mackinac, I saw a short distance ahead of me, two little pigs, one perfectly white and the other perfectly black, both the same size, trudging along side by side in the same direction as myself, seemingly engaged in earnest conversation. They seemed so out of place, and I was so curious to know whither they were bound, that I followed them unobserved.

They did not walk aimlessly, but as if they had some special object in view, and some definite destination. I wondered what they would do when they reached the water. I was not long in being answered. Without a moment's hesitation, they plunged into the waves, side by side, and swam out and away toward another island, six miles distant. I stood and watched them until their two little heads looked like balls bobbing up and down, side by side all the time.

When I related the incident to the landlord, a little later, he looked astonished and annoyed.

"Those pigs," he said, "were to have been served up for dinner to-day. They were brought here this morning in a boat from that island, six miles away, and we thought we might allow them their freedom for the short time they had to live, never thinking of their making an attempt to return home. And did you notice," he continued, "they chose the point of land nearest the island where they came from, to enter the water? Singular, the little animals should have been so bright? And, furthermore, they weren't landed there; that makes it more strange."

I, too, left the island that day, and I have never heard whether those brave little pigs ever reached their destination or not.--_Harper's Young People._

DECORATION DAY.

YES, little daughter, we go again, One glad bright hour in May, To cover with bloom the quiet graves Where sleep the "Blue and Gray."

I think I have told you many times The sacred reason why, But mamma often likes to speak Of the sad, sad days gone by.

I have told you how your grandpa Fell in the ranks of the Blue, When I was a wee maid, Barbara, Not nearly as large as you.

Fell 'neath the dear old banner At the battle of "Cedar Creek," In the days when uncle Charley Was a baby small and weak.

I well remember him, darling, So true, and noble, and bold, Though I was such a small, small girlie, Not quite turned eight years old.

He told me we of the Northland Were forced to enter the fight, How _we_, not our Southern brother, Were battling for God and right,

How they of the fiery Southland Were striving to tear apart The States cemented by life-blood, From many a loyal heart.

And I ever was staunchly loyal, For when my baby came, I called her the name our Quaker bard Has given to deathless fame.

Of her who so bravely held the flag, Out in the morning air Baring to rebel bullets The crown of her grand white hair.

But grandpa dwells where he knows to-day The truth between Gray and Blue Better than they of that far-off time Who thought they alone were true,

And mamma has learned that noble men Were there on the conquered side, As any that ever suffered, Suffered and bravely died.

So, little maiden Barbara, On that sunny time in May, Let us seek to honor the lonely graves Of the men who wore the Gray.

EMILY BAKER SMALLE.

_Volume 13, Number 28._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO. _May 15, 1886._

THE PANSY.

MONUMENTS.

IT was my first visit to New York. A few days after my arrival uncle took me to Greenwood, the most beautiful cemetery I ever saw. We visited the many points of interest. As we stood gazing at the fireman's monument, uncle told me the story of his heroism; how in one of the fierce fires this brave man lost his life while rescuing a woman from the flames. Then we spent a long time looking at the monument to Miss Conda, the beautiful young heiress who was thrown from a carriage and killed; and her fortune was built up in this wonderful marble.

The next morning aunt said, "You will go with me to-day to another Greenwood and see grander monuments than any you saw yesterday."

I wondered how that could be. But we were soon on our way. At length we turned into narrow, dirty streets, growing worse and worse. I shuddered at such sights and sounds of human beings, never before dreaming that in grand New York there could be so much wretchedness. I drew closer and closer to aunt, fearing one of the human demons that leered at us would seize me and carry me off.

Such people! such places to live in! Such language! Why, it almost makes my hair stand on end to think of it. Aunt did not seem to mind them. May be they knew her, for every one stood aside for us to pass. "Here it is," she said at length. "Here is the other Greenwood."

"This?" I answered, looking around for gravestones and monuments, and seeing nothing but dreadful houses and miserable objects. "This Greenwood!"

She simply answered, "Yes; come right in and you shall see the monuments."

I could only follow, wondering all the while if aunt was not losing her mind.

A sweet-faced girl met us with a warm welcome to aunt and an earnest look at me. As she led the way within, aunt whispered:

"One of the monuments, Clara."

"What? I don't know what you mean."

"Her name is Maggie," she quickly whispered back; "used to be called 'wild Maggie;' was one of the worst girls in this region. Never mind now, will tell you more hereafter. Take a good look at her, you'll see her again."

Then I heard singing like the songs of many angels. A door swung open. We entered. It was a great company of children, black and white, some with sweet sad faces; others with evil looks, but all singing. Soon Maggie came in from another door and sat among them and I could hear her voice ring out in joyful strains, leading the rest.

There was prayer and Bible reading, and such a good talk by a gentleman. It seemed like heaven, while many of the children, some partly blind, some lame, some pale and sad-faced, gathered around after meeting was out and seized aunt Joanna's hand, and seemed so happy. Another lady was there to whom they all pressed for a smile and a word.

"That lady," said aunt, "is Sir Christopher Wren."

"What _can_ you mean?" I asked. "Sir Christopher Wren was a _man_ who died in England more than a hundred years ago."

Aunt Joanna only laughed and said, "And came to life again, my child. This is he, only greater."

"What?" said I, more and more bewildered.

But she went on: "Look around here at the Monuments. You knew Sir Christopher was the architect of the great Westminster Abbey of London, and that kings and statesmen and poets are buried there, and their names and deeds are written there; but if any one inquires for Sir Christopher Wren's monument, he is told to look at the wonderful building of which he was the architect."

"I see," said I, "that lady has 'built up' Maggie."

"Exactly," said aunt Joanna, "and more than one hundred other miserable, sick and wicked children. See that frail girl over there coming toward her? It would take a book to tell how this lady used to come daily here and bend over her crib, sometimes holding her in her arms for hours fearing each moment would be her last. But come and I will introduce you and you shall see a greater than Christopher Wren."

After we were on our way home, aunt told me the story of this lady; how one day curiosity led her to go through this worst part of New York. Her heart was so touched at the wretchedness of the people that she resolved to do something for them. Her friends tried to dissuade her. Some said the people would kill her; some said it was no use to try to help them. But she went right forward, and now after years of labor and sorrow there is her monument, saved children.

Before my return home in the country, aunt Joanna gave a treat to the children of the Home all at her own expense.

Maggie, once "Wild Maggie," and I served. How many sandwiches I passed around, how many cups of milk Maggie filled, how some of the urchins were dressed, how they laughed, or chattered, or stared, what they all said to aunt Joanna about the "treat," would fill a book.

CLARA.

MONKEY POCKETS.

I SUPPOSE you did not know that monkeys had any pockets, save those in the little green coats they sometimes wear. But that is a mistake; their real pockets are in their cheeks. The other evening, I travelled in the next compartment to a little becoated monkey and his master.

The little creature's day's work was over, and, perched up on the sill of the carriage window, he produced his supper from those stow-away pockets of his, and commenced to munch it with great enjoyment. Several times the platform had to be cleared of the girls and boys who had come to see the little friend off on his journey. At length a porter, whose heart was warm toward little folks, allowed them to slip in and remain.

The officials felt the attraction of that window; and the stoker addressed the monkey as "mate." Even the station-master as he passed cast a sly glance toward the monkey, and a cheer was raised when the train was set in motion, and the monkey glided away from big and little spectators.

I heard the other day of a pet monkey called Hag, a creature no larger than a guinea-pig, whose master once found in his cheek pockets a steel thimble, his own gold ring, a pair of sleeve-links, a farthing, a button, a shilling, and a bit of candy. Monkeys, I am sorry to say, are given to stealing, and they use these pockets to hide the articles which they have stolen.--_Selected._

MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.

BY PARANETE.

VII.--IN WHICH THE STORY IS FINISHED.

"AN easy carriage came to the border of the woods," my acquaintance continued, "and the poor boy who had been shot was put on a couch that had been fixed in it, and carried home. All the other boys went home too. They didn't feel like having any more fun. The boy who had so carelessly fired the last time could hardly be comforted, and nobody blamed him, but every one pitied him.

"I learned from day to day, from Fred and the other members of the family, how the sick boy was getting along. He was fast improving, it seemed.

"I was soon transferred to the cushion from which I had been taken, where I remained for some time, until fall, indeed. From time to time, though, I was used for little things by different members of the family, but nothing special occurred in my presence, and I was seldom taken from my resting-place, for I was so long, that it was seldom that any one wanted to use me." (Moral: If you are _long_ about doing things, no one will want your help.)

"One day trunks were being packed, there was a general air of 'going away' about the house, and I learned that the lady, Fred's mother, was going away to be gone for some time. The children were to remain at home with their father. The last day I, or, more properly speaking, the pincushion on which I was, was packed in a satchel, and taken to the depot, and I knew no more of where I was for a good while, except by the rocking and noise of the train. Soon the satchel I was in was picked up, I felt the motion of a carriage again, and when light was let in upon me, we were in a room in a hotel, and my mistress placed my pincushion on the bureau, where I could see the busy street of a large city. The pins that were with me were pretty good company, and we remained in the city (that is, my mistress did) for some weeks, when one day, to our amazement, she packed up and went off, leaving us behind!

"Well, during that winter the room was occupied by various persons, thus affording me opportunity to study human nature, but I will not tire you with the results of the study, for I am simply telling you the story of my life. None of these persons touched me, but finally all the other pins were gone from the cushion, and I was left alone, and consequently was rather lonesome. The room was hired by a mother and her baby, a father and his baby, a young couple taking their wedding trip, I judged, and divers and sundry other people, who, as I remarked before, paid no attention to me. I grew more and more lonely, and was almost despairing of ever getting out of the hotel, when, one day, a fat old gentleman was led into the room by the colored porter, and established himself there. He was an author"--

"The one that boards here now?" I interrupted.

"Never mind," responded the pin, "don't interrupt me, please. This gentleman was an author, as I said before. He had papers and papers and papers! He had pens and pens and pens! He had stylographic pens, Mackinnon pens, and Paragon pens, and Todd's pens, and other pens! He came there to be quiet, he said, but he made more noise than anybody else in the house, except the solo singer, who roomed at our right, and the elocutionist (female, of course) who roomed at our left.

"One day the old gentleman announced to the porter that he couldn't stand it in that horrid place any longer, and he must help him get away the very next day. So he went. And as he was packing up, he found one roll of manuscript that wasn't pinned together, and so he drew me out from my long resting-place, much to my joy, and fastened the roll together with me.

"I was packed up in his satchel, and we journeyed quite a while. When it was opened, we were in a pleasant little room in a country boarding-house"--

"My mother's!" I again interrupted.

"Will you please be so kind as not to interrupt me again?" said the pin, his sharp voice growing sharper than ever. "I found myself, as I remarked before, in a pleasant little room in a country boarding-house. The scenery all around was very beautiful. There were fields, a meadow, a brook and some woods." (I very much wanted to interrupt again, but I bit my tongue, and squealed instead.)

"My master took long walks, and would sit down every little while on stone, stump, or fence, and write. One day as he was going out he asked the lady of the house to give him some lunch, as he would probably not be back for a good while"--

"My mother!" I burst forth.

"I think you are very impolite," the pin replied. "However, to pacify you, I will tell you that you are correct--it was your mother, and she put him up a nice lunch. He took quite a little walk, meditating the while, and every few moments he would lift up his arms, and discourse enthusiastically on the beauty of Nature. These talks were very uninteresting to me, as I felt quite competent to decide for myself what I thought of Nature, but I listened silently and patiently. At one point in the road the gentleman saw a good seat ahead, in the form of a stump, and so he slung his satchel on his arm, after getting some papers out, which he commenced to pin together with me. But at this point, as he was not engaged in looking where he was going, his toe unfortunately collided with the root of a stump which was firmly fixed in the ground, and he fell flat! A breeze coming up at the time, his papers, and so forth, were scattered to the four winds as you might say (though there was but one at the time), and he probably will never find the most of them again. His pens flew into a hollow stump near by, I flew over to the roots of another stump, and he fell on the satchel of lunch that your mother had prepared for him, squeezing it all out on the ground. Then he picked himself up and went home.

"As for me, I remained where I fell until you kindly brought me home with you this afternoon.

"Now, my young friend, I will conclude. I have done my work in this world, so far, as faithfully as I knew how, and I think I have fulfilled the purposes for which I was made. I hope I have proved to you that pins are of some importance, for I came very near causing the death of one person and saved the life of another. If you do your work, no matter how small it may be, as well as I have, you will be as happy as I am, perhaps not joyful, but you will at least be satisfied with yourself, which is a great deal better than being satisfied with others. I am through."

The pin stopped.

"Now shall I take you back to the stump?" I asked. But there was no answer given. I repeated the question, but still I received no reply.

Then I took my acquaintance up carefully, and carried it back to the stump, laying it in a place sheltered from the wet, as that worthy had requested.

"Here is your friend the pin," I said. But the stump made no reply. So I turned sadly and went home, and up to my room, to meditate on the singular silence of both the pin and the stump.

The supper bell startled me and I arose from my chair and my reverie, and hastened down stairs.

As I entered the dining-room, one of the boarders said: "Why, where have you been all the afternoon?"

"Oh, I took a walk down to Racket Brook, and then I stayed up in my room the rest of the time."

(_I_ was not going to tell about the pin and his story.)

"Are you sure you didn't come down again after you went up just after dinner?"

"Yes, I did," I indignantly replied.

"I peeped into your room this afternoon, and you were asleep by your desk."

"You were, I know," assented my little brother. "I saw you way down in the orchard, and you were asleep with your head on the window sill."

I made no reply, but went up to my room as soon as I had finished my supper, and spent the evening in writing my composition. And what do you think it was? Why, just the story of the pin as he told it to me that afternoon. The children wanted to know if it was true, after I had come down from the platform, having been greatly applauded by the audience (the fat author being in it). I replied that, every word of it was true, and went with them to the shore of the brook, where we found the identical stump with the young beech-tree growing beside it. Where was the pin? I do not know. It wasn't there, though, much to my chagrin.

When I got home, the fat author wanted to know if I would let him have my composition for one chapter of his book. I was perfectly willing, but when he showed me the chapter afterward it was headed "A Boy's Dream." And he had it that a boy had gone to sleep on the window-sill, and had dreamed--my composition!

When I returned it to him he asked me what I thought of it.

"I like it."

"And the title?"

I was silent for a moment--then I said,

"Perhaps it is so."

NOTE TO ALL THE PANSIES.--In my composition about the pin, I mentioned several interesting things about the early history of his family, etc., which he probably didn't know, or he would have told me. If you would like to know about them, just hunt up the word "pin" in the encyclopædia, and it will tell you.

PARANETE.

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

P.--PENN, WILLIAM.

THE other day I was looking at a map of Philadelphia, and at once my thoughts went back to my schooldays and the primary geography in which occurred the question, "What can you say of Philadelphia?" And the answer, "It is regularly laid out, the streets crossing each other at right angles like the lines on a checker-board." And again, "What is Philadelphia sometimes called?" Answer, "The City of Brotherly Love."

And now I wish I could set before you the calm, sweet, yet strong face of the man who founded and named this city, who truly desired it to be a city of love.

William Penn was a native of London. He was born nearly a quarter of a century after the Pilgrims landed upon Plymouth Rock; he belonged to a good family, his father being Admiral Sir William Penn of the British Navy. It appears that the son was of a religious turn of mind, and when he was a boy of twelve years he believed himself to have been specially called to a life of holiness. He was very carefully educated, but he offended his father by joining the Quakers; indeed, it seems that several times in the course of his life his father became very much displeased with him, but a reconciliation always followed, and at last the Admiral left all his estate to the son who had been such a trial to him. While a student at the University, Penn and his Quaker friends rebelled against the authority of the college and was expelled. The occasion of the rebellion was in the matter of wearing surplices and of uncovering the head in the presence of superiors. You know that the Quakers always keep their hats on, thinking it wrong to show to man the honor which they consider belongs only to God. And this reminds me to tell you that in the _Wide Awake_ for February, I think, Mr. Brooks has told a pretty story of William Penn and St. Valentine's Day, in which he mentions this refusal to uncover in the presence of the king even, as one cause of trouble between the father and son.